


we meet at crossroads

by earliegrey



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9095989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earliegrey/pseuds/earliegrey
Summary: “It’s nothing,” Akashi says, reading his mind. And Nijimura believes him. “It was a pleasure meeting you again, Nijimura-san. I’m glad to see that you’re doing well.” “I’ll treat you to coffee or lunch, or whatever,” Nijimura finishes, because he still has the pride of being the reliable upperclassmen, rainbow armband and sentimentality aside.(Akashi saves his dead drunk ass, Nijimura buys him lunch; a gift to soranshiryu for knbSS)





	

**Author's Note:**

> A gift to soranshiryu for knbSS! I apologize for the massive delay; this was a pinchhitter gift, but I hope that it's still something you enjoy! ^q^;;
> 
> I haven't given this pairing much thought before and after extensive research (reading metas, other fics, comics, looking at art www) IT'S ACTUALLY VERY ADORABLE;
> 
> Anyways, I'm sorry if there might be some similarities to other fics; I had a somewhat hard time nailing their personalities. x_x; In the end, I'm not very sure if I achieved what I wanted. Please excuse this; aa.
> 
> As always, please excuse typoes and grammar mistakes; I don't exactly write often so this is self-beta'd. ^^;;
> 
> Enjoy and happy holidays!!

Ginza, where people walk the walk, kick the kicks in tip, sharp shoes; ties and collars neatly fixed up to their chins; designer dresses flowing after every strut. New Money, old money, climbing out of sleek cars, head high, shoulders pulled back, walking like there’s a stick up their ass.

Ginza, where Nijimura awkwardly waits in the lobby of a hotel, swinging his worn briefcase in hand. With tacky products, clipboards, and agreement papers, he plays as salary man on the days he’s not sitting for hours in the train to his parent’s home in Tochigi, where there’s open fields instead of looming glass buildings.

Needless to say, he feels displaced in his cheap suit, crumpled tie, and a small cowlick to his unkempt hair. He smells of last night’s booze, cigarettes, and women’s perfume.

A ding sounds to his left, and in the golden light and glitter of porcelain floors, Takayama Ueshi, a product manager of Yamada Denki, exits the elevator.

Fixing himself, Nijimura begins walking towards him, pace brisk. “Takayama-san, thank you for the time—”

A familiar face smirks back at him. His work colleague— rival salary woman, the cut-throat bitch who wrung his wallet dry over a million drinks— _smirks_ at him.

She wraps herself around his potential business mark. “Hello Shuuzou-kun, I was having a nice luncheon with Takayama-sama, and he—”

Nijimura stares at her, and then past her. For a minute, he forgets that his business transaction was swiped under his nose and smothered in his face. For a second, he stares.

Red hair, cool cat eyes, hundred million yen suit.

With an air of elegance, he walks. Head high, shoulders leveled, Akashi Seijuurou, no longer twelve, strides past him like he owns the world and knows no other.

 

 

“Bitch,” Nijimura says, collapsing in his dinky chair. His chair is almost broken, the arm rest has fallen off; he needs to get promoted asap. “I’ve had him for _weeks_. I had the papers, he was going to sign it.”

“Too slow, tiger. I got it done in an hour,” she says, sitting on an avalanche of papers atop her desk. She has a leg thrown over the other, her pencil skirt stretches around her thigh, it looks like it’ll rip at the seam.

Nijimura looks and then glares at the compact powder in her hands. “Right. You did _quite a lot_ of work of familiarizing him with the product.”

“If you dine and wine them, they’ll do anything you ask. You should try it sometime. Maybe you’ll score a chick for once in your life, virgin.”

Nijimura flicks aside his now useless agreement papers. “Fuck off, Mori, I’m due on rent _today._ ”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” she says with a sassy smile.

 

 

Nijimura sits in his broken chair with a pen in his hand and even though he wants to kill Mori for being a cut-throat shark in sheep’s skin, she does wear pencil-skirts and has a perky ass, so he forgives her just a little.

He’s offended though. It’s not like he’s a complete loser. He’s had his fair share of girlfriends. Usually the ones with the expensive floral perfume and catwalk, chin high, hair tied neatly in a bun.

He’s also had his fair share of backstabs.

Nijimura’s an idiot who falls for slender bodies with silky voices and an expensive taste. He turns a deaf ear to whispers about his partner cheating on him, and when he finds out, he can’t even act surprised. It’s a hollow revelation he drinks away.

His wallet bleeds by the end of it, and Nijimura feels sad, sometimes, maybe lonely.  

It’s fate. He accepted it after he was left alone in the morning after, lying naked in a too-expensive hotel bed way past check-out time. The cleaning lady had shooed him out after throwing him a rag to cover his _everything_.

The rich are greedy, that’s one of the universal facts of life.

Nijimura swore that he would never be involved in something like that again, but two weeks later, he’s wrapped up in bedsheets and with a sore empty space where his heart used to be.

Maybe he’s a masochist who thinks it’s cute when someone treats him with faux superiority.  Maybe it’s their perky ass.

Maybe he just needs to get laid.

 

 

Nijimura Shuuzou graduated from a California University, but somehow in the odd twist of life, he lands himself a job as a salary man in a bustling office in Marunouchi. Finding buyers for products and sealing the deal, that’s what he does for a living however gruesomely boring it is.

He hates the 9-5 job and hates bowing repeatedly, apologizing for his failure to meet his monthly quota. (Thanks, bitch.) But if there’s any compensation in the too plain office, it’s the tight pencil skirts and the high-heeled strut.

And what a place in life to be: in a dreary office where a pathetic man has resorted to staring at a woman’s ass to pass his time.

Nijimura mentally checks out of work at three, and spends the next two hours twiddling a pen between his fingers while pretending to read a wall of text on his screen. It’s in English and his coworkers doesn’t know it’s the American constitution. They only know how to parrot the basics of _Hello. I’m fine, thank you, and you?_

Monotonous. Gray. Like the frame around the window and the dusty skyscape outside.

He drinks from his mug a cold cup of watered coffee, sits back and observes his desk. Call him a sentimental sucker, but he still carries the stupid rainbow armband his Teikou underclassmen gifted him. Reminds him of the days he was reliable, responsible, and respected. (Still is, but just not as much.)

It hangs on bolt from his desk lamp.

Nijimura thinks about the Generation of Miracles sometimes. He used to religiously track Teikou’s progress despite transferring away to America. Though, after some years of school and integration into L.A culture, his underclassmen only swim into mind every once a few months when he had the leisure to remember.

And so he does.

Red hair, cool cat eyes, hundred million yen suit.

Of course, Akashi Seijuurou is no longer twelve, nor is he the new Captain of the Teikou Middle School.

Of course, Akashi Seijuurou has always been, firstmost, a proud member of a family that had its roots spreading deep into the business world, raking in money at every turn of a second. Businesses start, they fall, the Akashi empire grows nonetheless.

Akashi Seijuurou had met his gaze but didn’t remember. Nijimura wasn’t surprised.

Because _Nijimura Shuuzou, Teikou Basketball Club captain,_ existed thirteen years ago. He has no place among Akashi’s sea of faceless associates and business partners.

Of course, _of course_ , and yet.

Nijimura’s lip twitches a tad as he remembers the black benz rolling away from the hotel curb side.

 

 

Nijimura Shuuzou is a “nice guy.”

Ask anyone in the office and they’ll cross their arms and agree with a simper.

What they really mean is that he’s the typical salaryman Frankenstein of residual frustration, workplace stress, and bachelor woes. His pride is his downfall; he hates losing to wealth, yet loses his money. Treat him to three mugs of beer and some shots of hard sake, and he’s gone to a dimension where he volunteers to be everyone’s knight in shining armor— or knight with a shining wallet.

All heroes have the classic ending of happily ever after when the knight gallops away with the princesses. Unfortunately, the princesses (or coworkers, for that matter) gallop away without him.

In Shinjuku, in an izakaya, and after drinking to Frankenstein’s troubles, NIjimura wobbles to the cashier with a bill more expensive than his monthly groceries. He’s fucked if he doesn’t remember to shake down his colleagues the day after.

“Your total is 24600 yen,” the cashier says and Nijimura half-glares at her because the hole in her face is mumbling something he doesn’t quite understand and he’s trying to find his wallet.

He doesn’t.

Between his sloshing vision and half-jumbled decision to call up the motherfucker who left him last, he doesn’t notice the brush of someone’s shoulder against his.

“I have it covered.”

He watches as dainty, manicured fingers slide a silver embellished card on the oak table.

Red hair, cool cat eyes, smooth voice, wrapped up in a brown cashmere cardigan.

The universe is either fucking with him or he’s just too goddamn drunk.

 

 

After drinking, Nijimura usually sits on the Yamanote Line until he ends up going in a loop around Tokyo three times, and stumbles off at Ueno to transfer to Asakusa. But he blinks and he’s in a car that he can’t afford.

Light jazz plays from the speakers somewhere. He’s leaning on someone. Small frame, smells nice, tapping away on something that can only be a laptop. The person isn’t saying anything, Nijimura doesn’t bother to move.

He wonders if he’s being kidnapped, and if he is, they’re doing a terrible job at it without the blindfolds or a sack over his head.

Nijimura looks out the window and the sight of his apartment complex greets him.

“We have arrived,” says a distant voice in the front somewhere. The door opens and with it, the car lights up in that dim golden glow. He struggles to get out, a slender hand helps him to steady.

As he leaves the car,  he catches sight of the man next to him, smiling in that demure and polite _Akashi Seijuurou_ way.

“Please have a good night, Nijimura-san.”

“Oh…shit,” Nijimura says, eyes widening as he _remembers_ : his fucking rich underclassmen, the god damn red hair and catty eyes, creasing even more so now that he’s smiling. _Akashi Seijuurou,_ covered his pathetic broke ass. “I’ll—”

“It’s nothing,” Akashi says, reading his mind. And Nijimura believes him. “It was a pleasure meeting you again, Nijimura-san. I’m glad to see that you’re doing well.”

“I’ll treat you to coffee or lunch, or whatever,” Nijimura finishes, because he still has the pride of being the reliable upperclassmen, rainbow armband and sentimentality aside.

The chauffeur stands there at the door, tense,  as if what Nijimura said was possibly the dumbest or most offensive thing to say to his young and wealthy employer. (As if Nijimura couldn’t become ruder after using _the young master_ as a human cushion.)

“I’m sure there’s much I’d like to talk to you about,” Akashi replies instead. “I look forward to it.”

Nijimura stands back as the black benz rolls away from the curb side.

 

 

Nijimura doesn’t arrange a meeting with Akashi, only because his dead drunk ass was too stupid to not ask for a number.

Akashi could have known that and had said what he said to placate him, because, although _Nijimura Shuuzou_ still existed even after thirteen years, he held no real place in Akashi’s circle of business associates.

In some ways, Nijimura is glad.

In other ways, he still has that pride and he can’t let his underclassmen, _Akashi Seijuurou_ or not, walk away after seeing him out of his mind and in a universe of shining knights and forgotten wallets.

He tries to forget it, and with his tasking workload and after cups of tasteless coffee, he nearly does.

But that goddamn rainbow armband still hangs from his desk lamp.

 

 

After a month and a half, Nijimura sees Akashi again, walking out of a corporate building during his lunch break.

Around him are people and in his hand is a briefcase, he looks busy and important. Akashi probably is.

Nijimura rethinks about calling out to him because Akashi probably shrugged off his offer for lunch as formality.

So, Nijimura hides into his half-eaten panini instead, and pretends he’s massively interested in the LIFE section of the newspaper. With his plain black hair and business suit a day old from the cleaners, Nijimura is sure to blend into the backdrop of a street-side cafe.

Akashi and his trail of people are somewhere near the end of the crosswalk; Nijimura can still hear Akashi’s name being thrown around. They’re _that_ close to him.

“We will discuss the merger tomorrow with more details.” Nijimura hears clearer than the rest. It’s louder and on purpose. “I have an important lunch appointment right now, I will excuse myself here.”

Nijimura ends up reading the title: “ _Masamoto Kenji retiring after filming The Lost Cat”_ ten times as distinct and precise footsteps step close, and closer to the table where he sits.

He lowers his newspaper a little.

Akashi stands there. He’s wearing a coat over his suit even though it’s barely Fall and only 23 degrees out. He smiles as though he’s expecting Nijimura to say something.

Nijimura almost wants to ask, “Am _I_ your important lunch date?”

Instead, he says, “Do you want the rest of my sandwich or something?”

Akashi puts his briefcase on the metal table before sliding out the chair opposite to him. “You’re offering me a half-eaten sandwich.” It sounded more like a statement than a question.

Nijimura half-shrugs, grabs for the sandwich that Akashi didn’t touch, would probably not touch even with a fifty foot stick. “You have a lunch appointment soon, no? Wouldn’t you want to eat your truffled foy grass with an empty stomach? ”

It really isn’t the way he should be addressing someone who swooped in to save him when his wallet decided to go AWOL. Nor is this a way to talk to an _Akashi_ who is wearing clothes that could probably pay his apartment’s rent for a year.

But there’s a small quirk in Akashi’s lip and his creased eyes are twinkling a bit more than they usually do in the candid photos in the newspapers. Nijimura knows he’s doing all right. “It’s _foie gras_ with truffles. I’m having that for dinner.”

“So, where’s lunch?” Nijimura entertains to ask, even though he knows Akashi used him as an excuse to get away from business matters. The half-panini he had offered is gone in three bites.

Akashi doesn’t exactly answer him with words. It’s an order-at-the-counter cafe but Akashi languidly waves an employee over while reading the cafe menu under a hooded gaze.

“I’ll take a latte macchiato with a turkey basil pesto sandwich, to eat here. Please, thank you.”

The employee-now-turned waiter looks confused but nonetheless bows and nods.

“I’ll have another black coffee,” Nijimura says, handing off two thousand yen bills. He has a reputation of _reliable upperclassmen_ to uphold. “Keep the change.”

Nijimura did say he’d pay for lunch, but when Akashi is giving him one of those polite not-quite smiles, he knows that the coffee and sandwich barely dipped into Akashi’s pool of wealth.

Nijimura is basically flipping a one yen coin to the bottom of a fountain.

When he thinks about it, he is overwhelmingly underclassed.

“Do you come here often?” Akashi asks, eyes not quite meeting Nijimura’s. He has bags under his eyes, Nijimura doesn’t stare too long before he reaches over to collect the menu away.

“It’s close to the station, it’s cheap,” Nijimura remarks with a wry smile. “You know, we could’ve gone to a restaurant you liked. I’d be able to figure things out.”

“Well.” Tactful pause. “You made the panini look delicious. I wanted to try it as well,” Akashi says, folding his arms up delicately, deliberately. It reminds Nijimura of the twelve-year old who followed him wordlessly like a glass doll, except now, Akashi’s not twelve anymore.

“Could’ve eaten my sandwich.”

Akashi makes a slight face, his nose crinkles up a little, and that look is new; it’s different. “I don’t particularly like olives.”

 _Don’t particularly like_ means _hate_. Nijimura catalogs this information away somewhere in his mind, maybe it’ll be useful later. Maybe.

 

 

Akashi Seijuurou, doesn’t like olives or pickles in his sandwiches or anything pickled for that matter, and will leave the sandwich two or three bites away from finished on his plate.

He drinks his coffee with a lot of milk, folds his napkin into a pointed triangle and pats his mouth daintily with it. He crosses his legs, leans back. He’s calm and composed despite having a gaunt resting expression and dark bags under his eyes.

He looks thirty years old and like a twelve year old baby at the same time.

They talk about school, or what school had been for them in high school. Akashi doesn’t share too much about how he led Teikou with an iron fist and then Rakuzan. Nijimura doesn’t talk much about his father’s treatment in America, nor does he talk about the street fights he naturally found himself in.

Nijimura has a feeling they both are wading cautiously into a topic that’s ridiculously dark for something jovial-sounding like _childhood_. But Nijimura doesn’t ask for Akashi to elaborate on anything more; Akashi returns the favor.

University and work: boring conversation topics. And although Nijimura doesn’t have much to reminiscence, Akashi is good company. He’s amiable, slightly chiding but not overly presumptuous.

Nijimura cusses, Akashi chuckles; it feels like middle school again, when the sun filters through the windows of the empty locker rooms, and Nijimura rambles and Akashi agrees, bemused.  

And here they are, thirteen years later. Nijimura complains about his work woes among other things over a coffee instead of a beer. And it occurs to him that Akashi is smiling at him with an unusual warmness in his gaze.

Nijimura forgets that his lunch break ended an hour ago. Akashi probably also forgot too.

He doesn’t worry too much about it and continues nursing his cold coffee.

 

 

It becomes dark out.

Nijimura feels like he’s been jarred awake from a very nice dream when Akashi pauses tactfully in the middle of the conversation and looks around, until he settles to gazing at the sun setting behind the Tokyo station building.

“Oh, it’s near five ‘o clock,” Akashi sounds surprised, but he doesn’t seem like he’s in a rush to be anywhere. Nijimura stands up, stretching. He’s an old man and it shows when he winces at a loud snap from his bones.

“Well, let’s get something to eat,” Nijimura says flippantly, striding a little past Akashi. His old habit kicks in without thinking. He puts a hand on Akashi’s perfect hair and ruffles it up every so slightly. “Is ramen too exquisite for you? How about gyudon?”

Akashi’s silence makes Nijimura reconsider and he snaps his hand away, clearing his voice as his way of apologizing. Right. Nijimura isn’t his captain anymore, Akashi isn’t his underclassmen.

Akashi doesn’t react, and Nijimura sees it’s because there’s a phone in his hand with a message that he obviously read. “…May I have a raincheck on that? I have an appointment with one of my investors at eight, I’m afraid I will be late if I don’t go soon.”

Nijimura’s mouth dries up; he feels ridiculous. “Yes. Sure,” he says. He watches Akashi gather himself, fixing his coat, pulling his gloves from his pockets and fitting his fingers into them.

It’s five, but Nijimura feels strangely jilted.

It’s not the prickling evening air, or the coffee. It’s Akashi and that perfect businessman smile that he resumes, as if the last four hours was almost something like a refreshing social exercise.

The rich are greedy, that’s one of the universal facts of life—but Akashi is different, Nijimura tells himself, and god does he hope it’s not the biggest lie of the century.

“Hey, stay warm,” Nijimura says. He firmly pats Akashi on his shoulder, something more businesslike, socially acceptable given the difference in their class.

When Akashi looks up, Nijimura pauses as his heart drops to his feet. There’s something distinctly different about Akashi suddenly. Stonier; his face is a lot more delicate than he remembered; expression impassive.

Akashi is right there, in front of him, but Nijimura feels like he doesn’t _know_ him. For once, he wonders about the secrets of Teikou and Rakuzan that Akashi hadn’t told him; and he feels like an outsider. Lost. Curious.

“I’ll give you a call,” Akashi says, breaking the silence. The shiver passes, and this is the Akashi he’s more familiar with, a regal man with relaxed shoulders and a downcast shadow of a genuine smile.

Nijimura stumbles back; he didn’t give Akashi his business card. “How—”

“I know,” Akashi reaffirms, pressing his palm against the lapels of Nijimura’s suit, and flattening away the stubborn wrinkle on his chest.

Akashi smiles at him before the temperature drops around him again as he walks away. His gait reminds Nijimura of a lone lion, stalking through the savanna, searching for prey.

He shudders. It’s terrifying and vicious, but no less enthralling.

 

 

Weeks pass and fate showers Nijimura with good fortune.

Business transactions go swimmingly, he hasn’t gone drinking with his coworkers for nearly a month, his heart hasn’t been torn out and stomped on by a one-night stand, his chair is finally replaced and now he can actually swivel.

He’s sometimes graced by the presence of _Akashi Seijuurou_ during his lunch breaks, although he never stays for more than an hour.

They exchange pleasantries, chat about the weather, stocks, the headline news. Nijimura insists on buying him lunch.

After the tenth meal, Nijimura realizes that he’s stopped buying him food just to repay his embarrassing debt. Now he’s doing it just because.

There was a time Nijimura worried about Akashi’s impression of commoner food, but he’s surprisingly flexible and agreeable. Massively different than all the other people he’s eaten with (and/or dated.)

He’s definitely eaten better elsewhere, but part of the dining experience is the atmosphere.

It’s a new experience. A nice break in between the meals at grand hotels and candlelit business dinners, Akashi tells him over a styrofoam foam bowl of katsudon.

Nijimura hums in agreement and flicks a piece of napkin at him to dab at the sauce on his lip.

 

 

The twelfth time, it’s a Wednesday night. Nijimura is actually surprised that he managed to book Akashi for three hours in the early evening, considering how busy his schedule must be.

Nijimura stands at the exit of Ueno station, with his phone. He was upgraded from Akashi’s phone messaging contacts to a contact on Akashi’s personal LINE. He feels like he's accomplished some kind of achievement.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” Akashi apologizes. He’s somewhat out of breath, coat unbuttoned ever slightly, and clothes, usually impeccable, now mussed. Nijimura thinks it’s endearing that he ran—or walked very fast—to meet him.

“It’s fine,” Nijimura says, shoving his hands into his pockets. He begins to walk, delving into the mass crowd. “I wanted to come early.”

And he also wanted to leave the office early before his coworkers roped him along to Shinjuku in time for happy hour.

Akashi falls in step with him; their pace is comfortable. “I thought maybe you haven’t gone to Ameyokocho before—we can try the seafood stalls, drink some beer—if you like beer.” Akashi nods, his eyes trained on the colorful signboards and glowing lanterns hanging above menus.

“Yakitori, seafood ramen…” Nijimura weaves around a person and then a clusterfuck of Chinese tourists. He tsks at their loud yelling and unmoving group. “I used to come here before, after school with Ikeda, remember him?”

He turns, expecting to see Akashi either half-smiling or feigning pleasant surprise. But he isn’t there. Nijimura blinks and glances around, a mistake to do in the middle of a moving stream of people. Someone shoves past him and he’s jostled until he spots a red spike of hair a few meters behind him.

“Akashi—” he says loudly, reaching out an arm to cut through the crowds. By the time Nijimura finally fought his way to Akashi, he’s breathless and has been pushed around too many times. He’s gotten a hold of Akashi’s arm to keep him from straying. “Why did you stop—”

“A line of people decided to walk, so I let them.”

Akashi looks at him, a complicated expression on his face—which said something more like _I couldn’t get past them, I had no choice._ Akashi is used to people walking beside or behind him, not into him or around him. It’s obvious his pride is a little hurt, Nijimura thinks. _Cute_ —he doesn’t think.

Nijimura loosens the grip on Akashi’s arm—he’s wearing a cool navy cardigan over a pressed shirt. “You need to shove past them. Show them who’s boss.”

Akashi raises a doubtful brow. “I don’t see the point of using force. ”

Nijimura coughs, embarrassed, slowly unclenching his raised fist. “I didn’t mean punching your way through.”

“I understood what you meant,” he says, more than amused. His hands are daintily deposited in his cardigan pockets. “Shall we?”

Nijimura makes a point to fish a dainty hand out. He takes Akashi’s wrist into his hand, briefly glides his thumb over the sharp relief that’s his wrist bone. Nijimura feels a steady pulse beneath his fingertips, but he doesn’t dare to glance back as he marches forward. “Let’s go.”

Behind him, silence, but not an objection.

In the bustle and mingle of an early Tokyo night stroll, Nijimura feels the warmth crawling up his arm in small thrums. When they stop at an aroma from a small shop and he lets go, it lingers.

 

 

It took Nijimura a week to realize that Akashi had Nijimura’s ties replaced and shoes shined. By now, Nijimura doesn’t even question how and why Akashi’s men are breaking into his apartment to do just that.

But if this was the way an Akashi repays him for 800 yen teishoku, Nijimura would have to be careful not to get kidnapped and brought to a tailor.

During the dinner with Akashi at Ameyokocho, Nijimura mentions a black tie with a scarlet stripe running down the middle. It’s too good for him, heavy and made of silk, probably worth more than his shoddy suit and shoes combined. “I don’t think I can wear it out, I’d look weird.”

“I think red would suit you, Nijimura-san,” Akashi comments, pulling the meat off the yakitori stick with his chopsticks. His cheeks are flushed but it might be from the mug of beer he has been emptying out in front of him.

Nijimura raises a brow, but doesn’t dwell on it once the waiter comes with another round of grilled chicken.

 

 

Nothing changes, at least Nijimura thinks that nothing has changed. Akashi still shows up as sporadically as ever; he still wears smart clothes and some kind of expensive cologne; he still leaves a few bites on his plate.

If anything has changed between them, it’s probably that Nijimura started eating up his leftovers because it’d be such a _waste_ and Akashi didn’t seem to mind.

Nijimura also discovers more things about him, subtle things, like how Akashi really likes nodding with a slight tilt to the right, or how he has long piano fingers that he taps rhythmically when he’s checking his phone in the quiet times when they wait for food to be brought out. Or how Akashi has really long lashes and they’re tinted red, just like his hair, and cast a pretty shadow on his cheekbones when he’s looking down.

There’s probably more, but that’s really the extent of it. Small, tiny things that Nijimura just notices.

Then he wonders _why_ he’s noticed them but quickly shrugs it away. Maybe he’s gotten used to Akashi being around, maybe he can actually use the word _comfortable_ to describe the something between them. He really doesn’t know.

 

 

“I like this,” Akashi says once, blowing the steam away from his tofu soup, while sitting on a rusting stool in a mom and pop restaurant.

Nijimura takes his word, not because he’s figured that Akashi has no financial merit in lying to him, but because his shoulders are sloped gently, his eyes are slid closed; he sips his soup and lets his lips linger on the rim of the bowl. Content.

Like the first time he played in an official match and won. It’s like a breath of fresh air, seeing serenity cross Akashi’s usually tired and sharp facade.

There’s one more thing: “It reminds me of my mother’s cooking.”

Nijimura is sitting across him, head resting on his palm, and he feels a slight clench in his stomach. He doesn’t know why.

After that, Akashi takes Nijimura back home, as always, in his expensive limousine. It’s a different car today, which means Akashi still has some unfinished business left in Ginza. But he had the leisure to step outside of his car and wait for Nijimura to gather his briefcase.

“Thank you,” Akashi says. It’s the first time he’s verbally expressed gratitude, and Nijimura is taken back, charmed even. “The restaurant was lovely, I’d like to go there again.”

Nijimura laughs, smile wrung out lopsided as it always does. He ruffles Akashi’s hair, out of a habit. “You got it, kiddo.”

And it was then, as Nijimura waved the limousine off and returned inside his room, shucking off his coat and laughing at the memory of Akashi Seijuurou drinking tofu soup and then _thanking_ him for it, that he realizes what had happened over the last few months:

To Akashi, Nijimura Shuuzou, ex-captain of the Teikou Basketball Club, existed thirteen years ago. He has no place among Akashi’s sea of faceless associates and business partners.

But it’s precisely because of that fact that Nijimura has unconsciously made himself a small niche of _special_ somewhere in Akashi’s circle of peers.

And without realizing, he’s gotten drunk with the exhilaration of exclusivity that what Nijimura had once assumed was his upperclassmen pride had evolved into something like near infatuation.

If it had been Midorima or even Kuroko that he had accidentally met on the street and invited to coffee, Nijimura doubts that he’d try to meet them again, and again; or ruffle their hair the same way he does.

Nijimura had sworn that he would never be involved in something like this again, but he’s a hypocrite who goes back on his words—so, _fuck it._

Akashi is exquisite, intelligent, puts his chin in hand as he thinks. But under that exterior of a natural businessman remains a residue of childlike wonder, of one who once plodded after his upperclassmen.

But it's fate and he always gets the short end of the stick in the game of life. To the world Akashi belongs to, he doesn’t exist.

Even so, Nijimura spends the rest of his night cleaning out his entire closet and flat ironing his clothes, because there’s a prick of guilt inside him that Akashi has to be seen with a slumbug like him. Nijimura likes to think that he’s proper but in his veins, there had always been a thread of middle school delinquency that hadn’t been quite stamped out yet.

As he neatly folds his shirts, he decides that next time, he’ll ask Akashi if he’d like to have lunch at _Ichido_ , a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with only nine-seats and the best pork gyoza in Tokyo.

Nijimura catches himself studying the various ties, all new, in the place where his old ones used to be. He’s feeling generous, so he’ll wear one tomorrow, maybe the one that’s red.

The rich are greedy, but who says he can’t indulge as well?

 

 

“You’re happy,” Mori says suspiciously. “You’re dating someone again.”

“I’m not,” Nijimura says, and he wishes she would _get off_ his desk so he could finish replying to his email. As much of a bitch Mori is, she can read Nijimura’s love life just from his face, and there’s always a strange smirk when she knows _something is up._

“You’re cleaned up, even more so than usual.” Nijimura types away even more furiously—was his _slob_ always so noticeable?

“Who is she?”

His lack of response makes her laugh. “A fuck buddy? You know you’re just going to get dumped and become horribly hungover this.”

“It’s not like that,” he grumbles, and catches himself before he says any more. She raises her brow and he slams his laptop shut; he can’t get any work done like this.

“I’m going to lunch.”

Distantly as he walks away, he hears her coo: “Did your new girlfriend buy you that tie?”

 

 

Nijimura feels a stare, heavy and speculating, boring into the top of his head. He looks up after scraping the remnants of his rice. Akashi meets his gaze full on; he doesn’t blink or turn away, or even act flustered that he was caught.

“Is something wrong?”

As usual, Akashi is finished with his meal, aside from the lone strip of chicken on top of a neat chunk of rice. “No, I just thought you seemed a bit more put together today.”

Nijimura’s lip twitches, and he sets the bowl down. _Really._ So he has been looking like a near-hobo the entire time and Akashi never bothered to tell him about it.

“I’m always put together,” Nijimura bluffs, reaching over to grab Akashi’s bowl.

Akashi gives him a bemused smile, and he drinks from a porcelain teacup. He lowers his eyes toward Nijimura’s chest with a familiar pleased twinkle in his eyes. “You’re wearing the red tie. As I thought, it suits you.”

 

 

During one of their impromptu evening strolls through Sensouji park, the weather decides to take a nosedive with an onslaught of rain.

Nijimura was quick to wave Akashi aside under the roof of a line of shops and threw his coat around Akashi’s shoulders. “The fucking weather,” Nijimura says as if it’s any good explanation for the freak storm. Although he’s braved Californian winters before, the biting winter breeze stings worse now that they’re wet.

As Nijimura wraps the coat tight around him, he’s conscious of the stutter in Akashi’s breath.

“The forecast predicted clear skies,” Akashi mumbles, burrowing his face into the collar of NIjimura’s coat. Cute _._ He’s practically swimming in it.

“You’ve always been weak to the cold, huh,” Nijimura says off-handedly, remembering having thrown his jersey over Akashi once.

There’s a long pause. “I’m not fond of the season.”

Nijimura finds himself marveling at Akashi’s silk-red hair, darkened by the rain. He pulls a strand gently between his fingers; it’s wet. Akashi needs a towel; Nijimura has towels and a change of clothes at home. “Hey, my place is—”

The default iphone ringtone sounds off and Nijimura wouldn’t have seen Akashi look more annoyed as he struggles under his many layers to find his phone.

He shoots Nijimura a look, resembling apologetic, as he answers. “Hello? Yes, I’m here.” Nijimura sighs a little and stares away. He brushes his fingers through his bangs, pushing them up from his forehead.

Akashi steals a small glance at him, “Well, right now may not be…” He sighs, strained and slow. “All right, I’ll be in the office in half an hour.”

He hangs up.

“Let me guess, you have to go?”

Like a cat that has been doused in water, Akashi’s mood is visibly soured; a frown has set where his half-smile would have been. Nijimura wonders at that. “Unfortunately.”

“I guess I’ll have to give you a tour of my plebian abode another day,” Niijimura says, but at least that eases the thin frown on Akashi’s lips.

“I’ll take you up on that offer,” Akashi says, as he speed-dials his chauffeur, probably.  

“You know where to find me.”

“Of course.”

That was the beginning of October.

 

 

At the end of the month, Nijimura takes a three hour nap on the Shonan-Shinjuku train from Ueno to Tochigi where his parents have relocated after the treatment in America.

His father needed the open air to maintain his fragile health and although they live in a rural town that is nearly two hours away from the heart of Tokyo, his parents didn’t mind.

Nijimura brings these cute banana-shaped cakes with him for his younger sister and brother who would no doubt jump him once he walks through the door. As he predicted, the _Tokyo Banana_ is gone within the hour.

His parents’ house is unsurprisingly low tech; there’s little reception in the area, so Nijimura lives in a digital black hole as he spends the short break with his family.

No emails going out, none coming in. He’s on leave from his office for a week.

He hasn’t seen Akashi for a month.

 

 

Nijimura is an adult. He knows what kind of work the young CEO does, and what kind of meetings or social events he has to attend. Nijimura’s little meal excursions have little value compared to an Akashi’s obligation. He knows that.

But good god, does he miss how Akashi’s icy business exterior melts just a bit when he’s with him, and how he’s probably one of the few people who can relish the soft, almost tender smiles while he eats something remarkably plain—(tofu soup.)

Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and in Nijimura’s case, his stupid, puppy dog-crush dissolves fast and hard into the category of pathetically, head over heels.

 

 

So.

His shitty coworkers _and boss_ didn’t put out a memo saying that he would be gone for a week. And within the first leg of the weekdays, Nijimura learns that ten cans of energy drinks a day and two sleepless nights poring over a backlog of customer information and emails can cause hallucinations, probably.

Midnight, or two a.m.

The purple swirls he’s been trying to catch on the ceiling of his office transform into a blurring swirl of red and a mildly concerned expression.

“Nijimura-san, you weren’t at your apartment,” the hallucination says. Close but also distant. It echoes in his ears. “You— need sleep.”

“I think I do,” Nijimura says after a long pause of staring and drinking in the sight. Akashi wears a classic coffee brown Burberry trench coat, around his neck is a goldenrod scarf, probably merino wool. Designer as always. His Akashi-hallucination is on point.

He sits up with a grunt, and closes his eyes, dizzy, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s too far gone if there’s a near-perfect Akashi hallucination at his elbow that’s gently scolding him to bed.

“Allow me, sir,” says an unfamiliar voice, as large hands grip his shoulders.

Nijimura braces himself for the slap that will come—if these hallucinations are messages from his subconscious, then his subconscious would surely punch him to tomorrow for slacking off.

He doesn’t get slapped, but hears movement instead. His vision swims; the light behind his eyelids disappear.

Nijimura hears voices, the one that’s most distinct and clear is Akashi—has always been him.

He’s gone too long without seeing Akashi and he _knows_ he’s been deprived. But to summon an Akashi substitution to drape himself around—good god, Nijimura didn’t know he was _this_ desperate.

“‘You smell nice,” he slurs among some other random things, like laughing into petal-soft hair, mumbling and nuzzling into the nape of a neck.

After stumbling over something, Nijimura then falls sideways, arms hooked around what he could only imagine (in his crazed, delusional mind) as his pillow.

“Sir—”

“I’ll…call you in the morning.”

Nijimura sleeps like the dead.

 

 

He slowly jarrs awake, his cheek is pressed against something soft and wispy. He blinks a little more, disorientated for a moment because he’s not in his bed. He’s on his couch, and how the hell did he even get here?

He tries to move but finds that he can’t. There’s a weight numbing his arm. When he looks down Nijimura nearly shrieks—Akashi is asleep, face buried into his shoulder.

What the _shit_?

The idea of moving scares him. The idea of having to face Akashi after _not remembering what happened last night_ terrifies him even more.

At least both their clothes are still on—Nijimura glances down again to check—yup, at least that’s something he doesn’t have to worry about.

With that relief washing over him, Nijimura drops his head back onto the cushions of his couch, slowly gathering his bearings. He was in his office last he remembered, his coworkers had left him there and he can’t remember if he scared them away or they left on their own volition.

He was doing just fine until his computer screen decided to flicker on him and his numbers blurred. It took a long while of slapping his slow desktop computer before it occurred to him that it’s him, just him on the verge of passing out on exhaustion.

Nijimura sighs deeply and that seems to have done something because Akashi suddenly— _breathes._ He doesn’t move when he feels Akashi’s body stretching out against him; there’s the slight shiver in his muscles before Akashi relaxes again.

“You’re awake.” Akashi shifts his head until his chin digs a little into Nijimura’s chest. He’s not sure if it’s Akashi’s chin or the sight of sleepy, red eyes that’s stabbing him in the heart at that moment.

“I’m awake,” Nijimura agrees dumbly.

“Did you sleep well?” Akashi mumble-asks, before he collapses back into his shoulder, cheeks mushing into Nijimura’s crumpled suit. Nijimura pinches himself to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

“I…slept.” Which does constitute as sleeping well, he guesses.

Nijimura wiggles a foot, he can’t budge. Akashi’s lying on him entirely, and then there’s the thing where Nijimura finds out it’s entirely his fault because he has Akashi locked in place with his arms loosely snaked around his waist.

It takes Akashi another ten seconds to respond. “Good. Now rest more.”

Akashi doesn’t move, at least not for another hour.

 

 

While Akashi uses his bathroom to freshen up, Nijimura scours his drawers for his stash of expensive coffee, because he’s done something embarrassing again and he doesn’t think he can live it down. Nijimura does find it behind a clutter of unused spices; then he sees that it’s expired.

When Akashi steps out, dressed down from his burberry coat and in his dark shirt and sweater pullover instead, Nijimura is stirring instant coffee powder into hot water. Nijimura only drinks it for the caffeine but Akashi’s regal taste would probably call it coffee bean water. Tasteless and classless.

“I’ve placed the towel into the hamper,” Akashi says, stepping quietly into the living room. Nijimura glances at him briefly; Akashi is practically glowing from his hot shower.

“Coffee will be ready soon—if you’re not going anywhere.” Though Nijimura did hear him murmuring over the phone in a solemn and steady tone.

“I’m not, morning matters have been settled.” Akashi sits on the couch, crossing his legs, posture contained and the polar opposite of his sprawl over the couch (and Nijimura) earlier that morning.   

Nijimura quirks his lip. Of course, he has to be lying, an Akashi has a million places to be but if this one is choosing to stay, he can’t really argue. “Do you take sugar?”

“Sugar’s fine, and—”

“Milk. lots of it, I know.” And Nijimura makes Akashi’s cup near pastel brown with warm milk. (He _warmed_ up milk for Akashi, how’s that for infatuation.)

Nijimura balances the cups and sets them on the coffee table before he also takes the seat next to him, although a bit cautious. “I don’t have much, but hope this kicks you awake in the morning.”

“Mm,” Akashi hums, taking the cup gingerly into his hand. He takes a deep breath of the aroma before sipping it. Nijimura watches him lower the mug after his initial drink, the smile on his lips seem pinker than usual. “It’s—”

“It’s the cheap knock offs you can find at Daiso,” Nijimura says before Akashi can pass his usual _food remark._ There’s a moment when Akashi pauses and uncertainty crosses his face. It’s clear that as a spoiled, high-class member of society, he doesn’t know what to say to that.

Only in this moment does it occur to Nijimura that he actually really enjoys catching Akashi off guard. He remedies the conversation though with a light laugh, “Do you like it though?”

“Of course, Nijimura-san made it,” Akashi explains, voice clear as if it was the most obvious thing in the universe. The sky is blue, the clouds are white, a young and successful CEO, Akashi Seijuurou, drinks 100 yen instant coffee.

The thought makes Nijimura’s chest warm.

A comfortable silence settles around them and Nijimura wouldn’t have minded letting Akashi observe his room—still boyish with age-old posters of the Lakers on his wall—until he remembers exactly how they got here.

He has a large chunk of his memory missing from the night before. “Last night,” he says, prompting some sort of explanation from Akashi.

“I thought I’d visit you but you didn’t respond to my message; you weren’t home either,” Akashi answers coolly, though it wasn’t exactly what Nijimura wanted to know.

“No, I meant. Did I,” Nijimura begins but then clears his voice. “—-I…didn’t do anything…weird to you last night, did I?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, I was out of my fucking mind and saying shit probably—” He knows Akashi is studying him right now, but he absolutely doesn’t want to tear his eyes away from the peeling poster of Kobe Bryant on his wall. “I don’t know, fuck. I’m sorry if I made you feel weird, or—”

Then he hears Akashi laugh—not full-hearty laughter, but a soft chuckle. Nijimura forgets that he was trying to _not_ look at Akashi, and looks at him.

 _Oh._ This is different. Apparently, when Akashi laughs— _really_ laughs—he brings a half-closed hand to cover his curled smile, his eyebrows are dipped. He looks stupidly adorable doing it.

He composes himself a little later. “You were…ah, what’s the word, very cute last night.”

If possible, Nijimura feels his face redden and pale at the same time, and this time he has nothing to say but sputter, covering his face up with his fingers.

“Shit, so I _did_ do something. Fucking _Shuuzou—_ ”

Akashi drinks his coffee in response.

 

 

“Sir…” his guard mutters, concerned, after he had deposited both Nijimura and Akashi on the couch.

“I’ll…” Akashi says, looking at a horizontal view of his guard’s shoes, and not paying attention to the slobbering _not-drunk_ salaryman lacing his arms around his torso. He’s in an undignified position. “…call you in the morning.”

With a wordless nod, his guard leaves and the door clicks closed. Akashi sighs, resting his head back. Now what to do with this man.

It was impressive that Nijimura managed to plow through his work through sheer willpower alone, but Nijimura does have the tendency to overestimate and martyr himself, so it seems. Not without a solid reason, however.

Akashi is sure the habit arose with the role reversal of being nurtured to nurturing. It certainly was evident during the year he was captain of the team. From his memory, Nijimura had deep faith in his members despite his strange ways of expressing it. Often times, he had been scolded and warned for his unconventional methods.

Nijimura would make the face he usually does and brush it off. He disciplined his team, assigned more exercises to their training menu, was the last to leave the gym and the first to arrive with paperwork (messily) done.

 _Because I’m the Captain of Teikou_ , Akashi remembers him saying.

Certainly, because Nijimura was the Captain of Teikou, he saw and treated his underclassmen fairly, equally. The only special treatment Nijimura ever showed involved his fists, Akashi didn’t quite understand that.

When Akashi reminisces of the days before _he_ awakened, to the days when he finished Nijimura’s paperwork for him and gave his insight and suggestions about his other teammates, something had stirred back then.

Exclusivity.

The quiet after-hours as Akashi listens patiently to Nijimura, puzzles at his ideals and his faith in problematic players, but still hears him out. His hard-wired tendency to believe in people is what struck Akashi the most—although he did approach his intentions suspiciously at first.

If Nijimura had more time as the captain, perhaps, their acquaintanceship could have become something else. Perhaps _he_ woudn’t have shown up. Perhaps, things could have changed.

But nothing changed then. And now, here’s an ode, a soliloquy to a lost childhood.

Akashi shifts, his chest presses against Nijimura’s; he can feel the slow rise and fall. It’s warm.

“I liked you,” Akashi says, slightly dipping his head just so. Nijimura moves a little, his eyes are closed but he’s breathing in lengthily. He’s still awake, it seems.

“I did too,” Nijimura mumbles, head rolling to the side. Akashi blinks at him as Nijimura swallows slightly, his lip juts out a little even when he’s asleep. “…‘nd I still do.”

Akashi presses his face into his shoulder, and hears the steady drum of Nijimura’s heartbeat against his ribcage. His face feels a little hot.

He grasps Nijimura’s crumpled suit in his fingers, and lets out something short of a laugh.

“I know.”


End file.
